Here’s a rear view of Ophelia. Although my mom insists she’s a normal weight (“It’s all fur!”) there’s no denying she’s a Big Kitty. She weighed in at 15 pounds when Mom adopted her from the shelter.
Not to worry about the sofa. Ophelia was adopted as a senior, fixed, declawed cat, from a municipal animal shelter. You can’t get more politically correct than that. As my mom keeps reminding me, Ophelia spent 30 days in a small cage before we took her home.
“I refuse to get her any diet food,” says my Mom. “Half a dozen vets told me Tiger was too fat. They predicted she’d die young. Well, Tiger finally headed off to the Great Sandbox in the Sky last July. She must have been twenty years old.”
Yeah, right. So how come every time that nice Dr. Kira looks at me and says, “Gracie is getting fat!” my rations get cut? Life is not fair. I’m a solid, muscular, queen-sized canine. Ophelia is squishy and fuzzy.
Speaking of being in shape, isn’t it about time for our walk?